Page 17 of In These Hills

“Dodge . . .” The woman cocked her head. “Why don’t you take Mrs. Dunham on out back to the kitchen while I finish up in here.”

Grateful for the woman’s astuteness and compassion, Josephine thanked her with a nod and followed Mr. Coburn outside to the porch, grateful she’d been proven wrong about the proprietress. Miss Mary, expectedly older, seemed far more understanding than dour and judgmental.

Shadows draped the porch, which actually appeared to be a deck, judging by the plank boards beneath her feet. Darkness obscured the path, the only illumination a pale silver moon and the warm glow from a window a few feet ahead. Josephine looked to her right and down the street as far as she could see, but could scarcely distinguish the shadowed outlines of darkened buildings and houses. Then she realized . . .

No electricity. Anywhere. That’s why the interior of the house had seemed darker.

She wasn’t unfamiliar with oil lamps, but electricity had been installed in their family home some years back. And parts of Atlanta, thriving city it was, had been powered by electricity for over two decades. But not Lynchburg, Tennessee, which felt another world away. A very good thing, in one sense. But very lonely and unfamiliar in another.

In the kitchen, they found two women standing by a massive cast-iron stove in the center of the room, their backs to them. And they were having words.

“All I’m saying, Calla, is it simply doesn’t taste as good as usual. It’s still worth eating, mind you. It’s simply not your best. And it’s important we always give our best, no matter who’s sitting at the table.”

“I’m hearing you, ma’am, but I made it just how I always do. I don’t know what’s making the difference.”

“Maybe the eggs weren’t as fresh.”

“I gathered them eggs myself this morning, so it wasn’t—”

“Well—” The woman, presumably the head cook judging by her authoritative tone, gave a succinct nod, clearly ending the discussion. “Let’s make it again later this week and see if it doesn’t come out better.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’ll do it, and with a skip in my step. But I’m telling you, I—”

Mr. Coburn cleared his throat, announcing their presence, and the women turned.

Surprisingly, the head cook was much younger than Josephine had assumed from seeing her only from behind. Calla, her coworker with warm brown skin and steady eyes, looked to be a few years older. Both women shifted their attention from Dodge to her—and their smiles faded. Concern washed over Calla’s face, while guarded suspicion settled on the younger woman’s.

“Mr. Coburn . . .” Suspicion seeped from the woman’s tone as well. “You’re much later than expected. And toting a stranger to boot.”

“Yes, ma’am. Got held up in Tullahoma, then hit some hard rain on our way back. Heavy load didn’t help either. We slipped and slid our way up and over Lynchburg Hill. But allow me to introduce—”

The young woman held up a hand, and in that simple gesture, commanded the room. She approached Josephine, her gaze assessing. “Welcome to Lynchburg, Miss . . . ?”

“It’s M-Mrs. actually,” Josephine managed, regretting the stammer and trying not to squirm beneath the lie. “Mrs. Josephine Dunham.”

The woman’s gaze darted to her left hand, as though she doubted Josephine’s claim. Only then did Josephine realize, with sickening regret—her wedding ring was gone.

“My ring!” She clutched her left hand, searching the floor for her mother’s thin silver band. “It was on my hand just a—” When was she last aware of it? She couldn’t remember. Regret hardened her gut. The thought of having lost that ring too, on top of all else, felt like the final blow. “It has to be here somewhere, I—”

Aware of the sudden silence, she looked up.

The young woman’s gaze had turned downright appraising. “I’m right sorry about your ring . . . Mrs. Dunham. That’s more bad luck on top of what already looks to be none too good. I’m Mrs. Jackson Bobo. But everybody around here just calls me Miss Mary.”

7

JOSEPHINE BLINKED, thrown even more off-balance. This was Miss Mary? The dour, persnickety old spinster she’d imagined? This woman couldn’t be more than ten years her senior, if that. Yet she exuded authority—and unmistakable skepticism. She had an old soul quality about her, too. The faded blue of her eyes, perhaps, or the way her light brown hair was plaited and coiled in a knot at the nape of her neck. Whatever the case, Josephine knew instinctively not to underestimate her—or get on her bad side.

“Miss Mary,” she responded and tried to produce a smile. Her lower lip felt like it might split open again from the effort. “It’s a pleasure to meet you . . . ma’am,” she added, unable not to, despite their closeness in age. Her stomach rumbled, and she hurried to cover the sound. “You have a lovely boarding house. It’s very welcoming. Especially on such a dark and rainy night.”

Miss Mary gave a slow nod, the silence lengthening. Thankfully, Dodge Coburn filled it.

“Mrs. Dunham’s in need of lodging for the night, Miss Mary. And I was wondering if you might put her up. If it’s not too much of a bother.”

A smile, tepid at best, tipped the woman’s mouth. “No bother at all. You’re welcome to stay the night here, Mrs. Dunham.” She glanced about. “But I’m not seeing your bags.”

Josephine winced. “I had to leave hurriedly, so—”

“Leave from where, if that’s not prying overmuch?”